


pissbaby orton

by hupsoonheng



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: F/M, M/M, Oral Sex, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 23:16:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>probably the commission most out of my usual wheelhouse i've gotten so far? i don't think i did too badly though. directive was 3000 words of triple h/randy orton/steph mcmahon after randy knocked steph down by accident after the ascension ceremony for the championship belts, with hints of femdom from steph. i got a little carried away toward the end though</p>
            </blockquote>





	pissbaby orton

Lately, Randy hasn't been feeling the power. If anything he's been feeling the humiliation, blood burning in his cheeks as The Authority, the fucking both of them, dress him down in front of an _audience_. Week after week with this shit, and now they wanna blame him? Randy goddamn Orton? For something that fuckup Daniel Bryan did? 

He did the scraping and the bowing and all that shit you’re supposed to do when your boss blames you for some other mook’s mistake. It’s not like he enjoyed seeing Steph go down—he knows better than that. He knows what kind of price he’d have to pay if he did that shit intentionally. If he’d actually been the one to knock her onto her ass he’d fully accept that pedigree into the mat, because he’d have deserved it. 

He can think of so many others to blame, in fact—CM punk, for being a high-strung little primadonna who can't handle a little push to the face (or a tumble to the mat) when it's not about him, for one. John Cena, for being an insufferable prick who's perfected the art of brown-nosing and bragging in the same breath, for two. Daniel Bryan doesn't even count as three because he's _always_ to blame for something, that piece of goatshit. Everybody's fucking it up for Randy and nobody wants to even admit to it. But hey, it's easier to want to make the champion look more like the chump, right? 

But really what killed it for Randy was looking up to see Hunter and Cena holding Steph upright, holding her away from him like _he_ were the monster in this situation. Who the fuck is Hunter to look at him like that, when Randy specifically remembers that not a week into his WWF career, The Game pedigreed his own wife, dragging her by the hair before she met the mat? But now they're not just a power couple, they're _the_ power couple. The Authority. 

Not that he's not privy to some of that, at least in private. 

Half an hour after the stupid ascension ceremony, Randy's out of the shower and changing into civvies. He smirks a little as he holds up his jeans; he's seen the posts on Tumblr wondering if he ever wears pants. He can't help it if he's got thighs that need displaying. Of course, he remembers with a frown, he's seen those posts, too, wondering where his ass is. You can have God's abs and pecs and still these peons are never fucking satisfied. 

As he steps into his pants, though, a meaty flat hand pounds the locker next to his, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't startled. It's only quick reflexes honed in the ring that save Randy from the indignity of tripping over his own pants and face planting on a bench. "What the fuck was that out there, Orton?" a familiar voice growls, and as he straightens up, yeah, it's Hunter. 

"Why don't you ask Bryan?" Randy says, suddenly completely focused on the act of pulling his pants up and zipping them shut. 

"Don't pull that innocent shit with me, _Randy_." Hunter's voice is a low hiss in Randy's ear, suddenly a whole lot closer. More than that Hunter's hand slides against his tail bone to take a possessive grip around the back of his waistband, and he yanks back just enough to remind his employee to whom exactly he belongs. 

"I told you," Randy says through his teeth, "it wasn't me, it was that shrimpy little—"

"You can't get through one little piece of ceremony without making a problem?" Hunter interrupts, and his other hand wraps around the back of Randy's neck, rough from years of beating down other men. "Cena talks shit. It's his modus goddamn operandi! You couldn't have just shook the man's hand and gotten it over with?" 

"He fought back!" Randy protests, even with the weight of Hunter's hands on him. 

"You threw the first punch!" the other man roars, and it's Triple H slamming him up against the locker door with all the strength that entails, not Hunter. No lie that it hurts, but Randy knows better than to let him know that. "You're like a child, you know that?" Hunter's voice is the hot breath of a real predator against his ear. "Always whining for more, always crying that it's not your fault, falling for every little bait against your pissant honor." His teeth are so close to the delicate cartilage, like they're ready to bite and rend through it. "Don't tell me you need another lesson, Randall." 

Unlike the pain, Randy can't hide the shiver that travels through him. A second one follows when Hunter chuckles against his neck. 

"I'll deal with you later," Hunter says as he finally releases him. Randy watches him leave from the corner of his eye, acutely aware of his own arousal. He's also been trained well enough to know he shouldn't take care of it himself, so with a sigh he strips back down, shoving everything into the locker before heading back into the showers—this time for a cold one. 

It's not that he doesn't have his dignity. Some know-nothings would argue it's all he's got. He comes from a short but strong line of wrestlers, after all—the Orton family name commands respect all the way back to his grandfather, Bob Orton Sr. But Stephanie McMahon is nothing if not possessive of her pet wrestlers, and lingering touches around his hips in proud moments became fingers seeking the hottest parts of him, became invitations—no, orders from on high—to discreetly follow her to her room and service her, all take and no give. 

And then her husband got involved. 

Showered a second time and finally dressed, Randy makes his way through the back halls with his duffel. Off hours, much of the ringside drama falls to the wayside; he waves a tired hello to Mark Henry on his way to the parking lot. Henry cocks a brow in return and waves back. 

Stephanie is waiting by the exit, stern and elegant in her pant suit and heels. She doesn't look like someone who got accidentally knocked out in the ring, but then again he doesn't know if having someone trip and fall toward you counts as such. If anything her lipstick is fresh, her eyeliner neatened, and her hands are steady as she unclasps them with his approach. 

"Sloppy," she says once Randy is only a few feet away. There's a fire in the shine of her eyes and precise twitch of her eyebrows that makes him swallow. "That was pathetic, Randy." She never uses his surname to refer to him. 

"I'm not the one who had to give a speech about what a hard worker he is and how I'm a lazy subpar wrestler," he replies, taking a few steps closer. He dares himself to loom over her, eyes hooded. "Triple H already talked to me, you know." 

"Hunter and I are separate entities," Stephanie says in a voice that spells danger. "Just because my husband gave you his opinion on your performance tonight does not mean I suddenly have to swallow mine." She closes that last bit of distance, her body skimming Randy's, and he has to look away. He's only got so much courage. "Your ego _can_ get in the way of you staying the face of the company, you know." 

Randy swallows again. Steph is every bit the hardass her husband is; her femaleness is no promise of understanding. Weakness is as unwelcome in her presence as it is in Hunter's. 

But sometimes she pretends to relent. And a very small handful of times, there's been no insincerity, so when she does this thing where she puts a tender hand on Randy's cheek, he falls for it, always hoping she means it this time. 

"You picked Cena over me," he says, trying and failing to not sound plaintive. He sounds like a child. He sounds embarrassing. 

"Who picked Cena over anyone?" Steph asks, so syrupy even Randy can see the trap he's walked into here. And yet? He can't stop himself. 

"You—you stood with him, and Hunter, standing over me!" Did his voice just break? Fuck. Only Stephanie can do this to him. 

"John's just a gentleman," she says, giving his cheek a condescending pat. "Nobody's choosing him for anything, don't worry." A beat, and, "You know you're the only one for us, Randy." 

"Cena was the champ for ten thousand years," Randy mutters, and this time it's more like a light slap Stephanie gives him. 

"Get over yourself, Orton," she says with a stern look. "Being the only one for us doesn't involve slacking off." She glances around—as if she actually gives a fuck who spots her acting inappropriately, please, she's one half of The Authority, she's literally the WWF princess become WWE queen—and she bares her cheek to him. There are no words because both parties know what Randy's supposed to do, which is to lean down and kiss the queen's face, chaste and proper. He does, and braces himself for the slap that always follows. He knows, too, that she gets off on his defiant expression coupled with an inability to retaliate, hands locked behind his back by loyalty. Then he's supposed to stand like that until she's walked out of sight. 

Sometimes Randy just wants to go home, though. This is the second boner he's popped all night, and he's definitely not in the mood for a third round with the shower, so he does his best to adjust himself and think anti-erotic thoughts as he finally makes it out into the parking lot. Like what he bets Cena's o-face looks like. He's seen the stills of his fights and the man look like a toad gasping to breathe when he's getting intense. He can already feel the front of his jeans getting looser. 

The problem now though is there's someone standing next to his car, the pressed trousers of whom are lit up with dull red light from Randy pressing his car key button. For a second Randy's whole body tenses—whoever it is is about to be real fucking sad for lying in wait for a pro wrestler, much less the champ. 

"Oh please, Orton," says the creeper, and, oh. No, that's Triple H. Randy relaxes with a heavy sigh, because hasn't Hunter already dealt with him? Randy's dick is starting to get sore from the roller coaster it's been on tonight. He doesn't need more teasing. 

"Lock your car," the Authority orders, and although he takes the time to throw his duffel in the back seat, Randy does as he's told. Hunter beckons with two thick fingers and Randy follows him across the parking lot. If Hunter wants him in his hotel room, wouldn't it make more sense to let Randy follow in his own car, fifteen minutes behind? It's not like Randy's not in the same hotel, or like either of them plan on giving him a ride back tomorrow. 

Hunter's car is undoubtedly and unsurprisingly nicer than Randy's Saab, although that's still nicer than Daniel Bryan's Honda. Low bar to set, though. "Get in," Hunter says, gesturing toward the front passenger seat, and Randy obeys again, still utterly lost. Hunter slides into the driver's seat and locks his own door, which just happens to lock all the other doors. No big deal, it's just power locks. It's not like his boss is locking him into a small space with little chance of escape, or anything. 

"I may have been a bit," Hunter says, sucking in breath through gritted teeth as he steeples his fingers thoughtfully on the wheel, "brash with you, in the locker room." He doesn't look at Randy. "You know what they say, though. Once a wrestler, always a wrestler." 

"Who says that?" Randy asks, but Hunter ignores that, rubbing his chin before glancing at his employee. 

"It's obvious to me that what's best for business," Hunter says slowly, and Randy tries not to roll his eyes, "is that the COO of the company be calmer. Needs to have a level head." This time he doesn't just glance Randy's way, holding the champion's gaze. "A release." 

"Right," Randy says, clearing his throat. "No, I get it." He hears the jingle of Hunter's belt while he's looking out the window—there's literally no one else out here. Thank god. When he turns back he's met with the sight of Hunter's pants open, the bottom of his shirtfront unbuttoned and pulled away like curtains around the head of his dick, which peeks just over the elastic that holds it flush to his hard stomach. 

Randy is, of course, no stranger to this particular dick. This is just the first time he's attended to it in the car—but he figures Hunter just can't wait this time. A few touches through his boxers get the boss man fully erect, and Randy starts to shift to climb over to the driver's side to straddle Hunter's lap. 

"Not here," Hunter says, a firm hand on his chest holding him in place. "Just suck it, Orton." 

The directness of the order makes Randy shiver. In public he defies the Authority to maintain his rep as the man he is, but in private he fully admits he's Triple H's little bitch. He twists in his seat, one knee jammed against the clutch, and for a brief indulgent second he inhales the warmth radiating from Hunter's arousal. He would absolutely never tell him he ever does that, of course, because it borders both being kind of sentimental and kind of gross. 

He pushes the brushed cotton aside and puts his lips to the burning underside of Hunter's cock; there's virtually no reaction up above, but a tightening of the man's lips is all Randy needs to see to know that so far, so good. He tucks his lips over his teeth the way Triple H has taught him through knocks to the head every time he forgot, and swallows the other man whole. Hunter grits his teeth, and his hand rests first on the back of Randy's shorn head, then across his broad shoulders, and finally at his waist, pulling his shirt up his back little by little. 

That hand makes its way up until it's come around to Randy's chest to find one of his nipples; Hunter always likes to have a handle, and he likes to test Randy's concentration, too. There's pubic hair in Randy's nose and when he moans around the cock in his mouth even the slightest bit, Hunter gives that nipple a cruel enough twist to tell him to shut the fuck up. Especially because suddenly there's another voice, and Randy goes absolutely still. 

"You still here?" the voice asks, from far enough away that Randy isn't too worried yet. He can't quite place who it is, though. 

"Yeah, just, you know, decompressing in the car before heading back to the hotel. You know." Randy's not actually sure Hunter means to stroke a finger over the nipple while he's talking to this other person, but it's torturous, because it's in _both_ their best interests if he stays silent. 

"Ah, yeah. Sure." The voice nears. Who is that? "Orton's car is still here." Fuck, that's Ambrose. He's nothing if not a nosy weirdo, and he's way too close to the car for Randy's comfort by the sound of it. "Dude's like a, like a ghost or something, I dunno. You seen him?" 

"It's not really my problem so long as he shows up for work when I need him to," Hunter says, thumbing Randy's nipple as he does. "Same applies to you, Ambrose. Get going." 

"...Yeah, alright." Randy chances a swirl of his tongue as Ambrose's footsteps echo away, and Hunter's fingers dig into his ribs; he glances up to see Hunter's whole face is tight with concentration. "Good night, boss man." 

"Get some sleep, Dean." After a moment there's a very distant slamming of a car door, and a moment after that Hunter mutters, "I oughta add a clause to your contract telling you to grow your hair out so I can fucking pull on it after that kind of stunt." Randy starts to come up to respond and Hunter pushes down on his head with a shake of his. "No, no. You finish the job I gave you." 

So Randy does. His back aches and his hips are twisted beyond what's comfortable and his jaw gets sore, but he works doggedly at that cock, the hand not braced against the seat between Triple H's thighs awkwardly stroking from above between bobs of his head. It's when he pulls the head of it flat against the back of his throat, breathing through his nose, that Hunter grunts through his teeth and cum floods Randy's mouth. The man goes still for a few extra seconds, riding out his orgasm as silently as possible while he bruises Randy's hip with the hold he's got on it. 

As he tucks himself back in and zips up, Hunter clears his throat. "All I want from you, Randy, is a competent employee who does as he's told." He reaches for Randy's jaw, and pulls him close by it, though not close enough Randy might think there's a kiss in store. (There pretty much never is.) "And for you to keep this face fresh and clear. It's the face of the WWE. It's _my_ face." He gives Randy's jaw a little shake that goes through his whole head, and releases him. "Can you do that for me, Randy?" 

"Yeah. Yeah," Randy says, licking the semen from behind his molars. He's gonna need a drink when he gets back to the hotel. "Sure, I can do that." 

"Good. Now go drive your own car back to the hotel, it can't sit here all night. Looks weird."


End file.
